Inspired by a Dream

     Temptation

     My past came back and kissed me
     When it saw my eyes were closed;
     It told me how it missed me,
     Then revealed its reddest rose.

     My past tried to seduce me
     With the old familiar charms;
     But it could not induce me
     From the other's whiter arms.

     This little poem was inspired by a very vivid dream I had years ago: 

     A tenor I worked with at Houston Grand Opera, a piano surrounded by dusty antique clutter, my university and its practice rooms. The tenor asked me to give him a coaching, and when he led me to the piano surrounded by dusty antiques, I told him I hadn't played in years; then I tentatively tried the opening bars of Bohème, and that was when he kissed me.

 

 

"Temptation" © Leticia Austria 2008

 

Music Monday: Bach and Winter Rain

The Pianist Recalls

I longed for silence; but instead, I found
that winter raindrops tapping on the ground
reminded me of fingers playing Bach.
And with the lissome beat of that courante,
I heard the voice of my old confidante
behind the door I had so firmly locked.

© Leticia Austria 2010
First published in The Road Not Taken: A Journal of Formal Poetry

Bach: Partita No. 2, Courante - Tatiana Nikolayeva

Saturday at the Opera: In an Old Studio

I wrote this poem in 2009 as an homage to my coaching studio at Houston Grand Opera. The wonderful Joyce DiDonato (who knew my studio very well!) kindly published it a couple of years ago on her blog (I've since changed a couple of punctuations and added a break in the middle of the poem), so that is its credited "first appearance"—very appropriate, don't you think?

In an Old Studio

There used to be a piano in this room,
a mid-size grand, whose lid was always strewn
with scores of Verdi and Rossini. 
On the walls hung photos of the Tuscan hills,
a poster of a street in old Milan—
they've left their imprint, ghostly squares against
the graying of the years—and on this spot,
a music stand held up the legacy
of genius waiting to be issued forth
through chosen throats.
                                             Be still a minute. Listen.
Distant phrases of a long-lost life
will breathe across your brow and tell the tale
of striving for sublime exactitude,
of discipline and repetition, of
the just dissatisfaction with an end
that's less than art. Then close your eyes to touch
the keys that are no longer there, and you
will hear the splendor that was crafted in
this room, and leave it with the cadences
of ancient passions sighing in your soul.

© Leticia Austria 2009

Music Monday: How I Met Mozart

     In the first few posts under "My Musical Life" I wrote about the beginnings of my career as a pianist and that my very first teacher was a Mrs. Woliver, one of those neighborhood housewives who gave piano lessons in the evenings and on weekends. Though I never kept in touch with Mrs. Woliver after leaving her tutelage to pursue more advanced piano studies, I have never forgotten the solid foundation she gave me, nor her gentle patience.

     She started me off with a series of books that so many other pianists start off with, the John Thompson series, the first of which is Teaching Little Fingers to Play. Over the next year or so I moved rapidly through the next three or four books of the series. The most memorable pieces from that series were short, simplified snatches from larger works by major composers: a minuet by Bach, a sarabande by Handel, a bit of Beethoven—and the first half of the theme from the first movement of Mozart's Sonata in A Major, K. 331. I was so taken with Mozart's elegantly tender theme that when a few years later I bought his complete sonatas, K. 331 was the first one I wanted to study. For some reason, though, I worked on several of the others before I finally got around to it, and I never performed it or used it in competition. Rather, the D Major K. 576 became my big "war horse" Mozart sonata.

     After I moved to Houston to immerse myself in opera, I would from time to time play through the K. 331 for renewal and relaxation. I still have a soft spot in my heart for it. It did, after all, introduce me to one of my greatest musical friends—Wolfie.

     P. S. Just a few years ago, I saw Mrs. Woliver's obituary in the paper. She had continued to teach piano till almost the end of her life.

 

     Here is the great Walter Gieseking playing the first movement of K. 331. Perhaps because of the time constraints of older recordings, he doesn't take any of the repeats. Still, this performance is matchless in beauty, elegance, phrasing, and articulation.

Ears without Eyes

     A few years ago I gathered all my piano scores that were in solid physical shape and weren't rife with my personal markings and sold them to Half Price Books, in hope that some earnest piano student with limited funds would snatch them up. Snatched they were; in fact, when I returned to Half Price a couple of weeks later, most of my scores were gone. I wasn't surprised, really; piano scores of the better editions can be very expensive when bought new, especially for poor students.

     Besides needing the shelf space for my ever-expanding library of books, I sold my scores because I decided once for all to give up playing the piano, even for personal pleasure—"personal pleasure" for me never could last long, as my temper and hyper-perfectionism always got the better of me. I did, however, keep a few: Mozart sonatas, Chopin nocturnes, a handful of concertos. Some things one cannot part with, for any reason. It would be like losing a limb. (Another reason why I made a very poor nun.)

     Now that I can once again listen to piano music without the emotional pain—for which I am infinitely grateful—I find it peculiar in a sort of amusing way that listening is so difficult for me without actually seeing the music. It occurred to me last night, as I listened to the chiaroscuro  of Schubert's D959, that I would better understand not only the music but also Kempff's interpretation (for that was whose performance I was listening to) if I had the score in front of me, and could see the actual markings. Only in that moment did I realize just how much of a hindrance my musical history was to simple aural learning. I thought of all the music lovers in the world, those with a genuine, refined, informed taste, who can't read a note of music. How do they "learn" the music without seeing it? * That one could indeed learn merely by listening is a notion I never seriously had to consider till now—now that I had no score to consult whenever my ears prompted the question, "Why did Kempff do that ? Why did he make that specific choice, if it was  his choice and not an actual marking in the score?"

     I don't regret for a moment the basic reason behind selling my scores, but now I do regret not being able to consult them, to which end, I have ordered the Complete Schubert Sonatas (unfortunately sans  the "fragments") in the very edition I once owned. I anticipate its arrival as I would the arrival of a dear friend I've not seen in a long time. Its renewed presence in my life will not stir up old, painful memories, but will only enrich and enhance my newly found "personal pleasure" in listening to music.

* I'm not referring to "playing by ear," which is another thing entirely; I'm referring to getting to know a piece of music intimately through study.

    

A Pianist's Farewell

     I wrote this in the monastery when I decided once and for all to give up the piano. Since I knew full well and for a long time that the day would come, when it did come it really wasn't as painful as I thought it would be. Still, it was emotional.

     After I left the cloister and began to submit my poems for publication, I sent this one in to the 2008 Utmost Christian Poets Contest (Novice Division), an international contest out of Canada. At that time it was titled "A Pianist's Farewell upon Entering the Cloister." To my genuine surprise, it won Best Rhyming Poem and Third Prize Over All. Shortly after that, it was published in The Storyteller magazine under its present, less cumbersome, title.

 

A Pianist's Farewell

 

I never thought to leave you, friend,

Who were the very breath of me,

My working day, my restless night,

The steersman of my destiny.

I made a solemn vow to you—

Or was it you to me? Who knows?

It was so long a life ago,

And thieving time too fleeting goes.

 

Was ever there a day, an hour,

That was not colored by your voice?

You snatched me from the womb, I think,

Purloined from me all will and choice ...

Ah, no, I tease you, dearest friend!

To you I may so freely speak,

For you have known my deepest deep

And bore me up to heaven's peak.

 

With you, I soared beyond my self;

Upon your keys, I knew no fear

Of man, or dreams, or my own heart—

My aim was true, my vision clear.

Through you, I gave my laughter words;

Through you, I let my sorrow weep;

To you I told my greatest love,

And in you, let my secret sleep.

 

You were my solace and my strength,

My wise and faithful confidante.

Though now I live without your voice,

My memory its echoes haunt.

It must be so. If ever we

Should meet again, I cannot tell.

I loved you, heart and soul and mind,

O truest, dearest friend. Farewell.

 

© Leticia Austria 2006

The Ersatz Organist

     I never wanted to play the organ. From the dawn of my musical life, I knew my keyboard instrument of choice was the piano. I loved the seemingly endless spectrum of tone and color one can draw from a fine piano, simply by virtue of one's physical and psychological makeup—combined with the speed, the amount of pressure, and how much of one's fingertips one uses to depress the keys. When I listened to great pianists, I was awed and fascinated at their ability to turn the piano into an aural kaleidoscope, to evoke the sound of rain, thunder, birds, the human voice, and everything in between. When as a child I looked at an organ, with all its stops and pistons, bells and whistles, I thought, "Well, you just push different buttons to get different sounds. That doesn't seem very fun or challenging." Aside from hymns, I didn't even like to listen to the organ. Organ recitals left me completely unmoved and unimpressed.

     Even now, I remain unmoved. I can sometimes be impressed by a fine organist's skill, but I am never moved, nor would I willingly choose to attend an organ recital. The piano, on the other hand—rather, in the hands of a master—can, and very often does, move me to tears. It can also make me laugh—when I am so overwhelmed by the music and the pianist's gift, so much joy wells up in my soul, I can't help laughing. Glee. Sheer glee.

     When I entered the monastery, I knew I would have to curtail severely my piano playing, noise of any kind, musical or otherwise, not being conducive to the silence that is so crucial to monastic life. I also knew that I would eventually be asked to learn to play the organ. It surprises me that so many people think pianists can automatically play the organ and vice-versa. The only thing the two instruments have in common is the keyboard; otherwise, they are radically different and require different techniques. By the same token, an oboe and a clarinet are both wind instruments, but they are radically different and require different techniques—not to mention the fact that one has a double reed and the other has a single. The only thing they have in common, really, is that they are both blown into.

     Sisters in that monastery who learned the organ before I entered, took lessons from a local teacher. But when it came time for me to learn, that teacher's health had declined and she no longer taught. Since there was no other organ teacher in Lufkin, I perforce taught myself. At that time, a sister from an active congregation was visiting us for a week, to help hone our liturgy and improve our singing. She kindly got me started on the organ, giving me the Gleason manual as a guide. I remembered my high school choir director, who was also a church organist, had always told me that hymns are some of the most difficult things to play on the organ; so almost immediately on learning basic pedal technique and finger legato, I sightread and worked on as many hymns as I could.

     For some time, I found it especially difficult to stop my left pinkie finger from wanting to play bass notes! And of course, there was the problem most common among pianists learning the organ: training the left hand to be completely independent from the feet. At first, the left hand wants not only to play bass notes, it wants to move parallel with the bass line  instead of sticking to wherever the tenor line goes. The remedy is to practice, ad nauseum, the feet and left hand by themselves.

     I won't go into the challenges of finger legato or the finer points of pedal technique; it all gets too complicated. I will say, though, that I had to practice using at all times the quietest registration possible. The monastery owns two organs, almost identical to each other; one is in the chapel, the other in the chapter hall. The latter is used for practice. However, the chapter hall is in the same building as the professed sisters' cells. Given that when they're not working or in chapel, nuns are encouraged to spend as much time as they can praying and reading in their cells, those practicing on the organ can never practice with "real" registrations, for fear of disturbing their sisters. So the organists never really know what a piece sounds like until they play it on the chapel organ, in the actual situation for which they practiced! When I was asked to play the Bach-Gounod Ave Maria (and later, the Schubert) for a special Mass, I had no idea what my chosen registration actually sounded like beforehand. Scary—and very frustrating.

     Now I am the volunteer organist (and, at the moment, the volunteer cantor) at a small chapel in a retirement village. The congregation consists of retired sisters belonging to a certain active order, and lay residents. I'm happy to put the skills learned during my novitiate to such a worthy use, and grateful to be given the opportunity to serve the Church in even a small way. But I consider myself a pianist by nature and an ersatz organist who still doesn't like the sound of an organ, except in the liturgy.

Music Monday: The Memory of Music

     In an earlier post I wrote, "Music buddies are the BEST." In an even earlier post I explain why, so I won't go into it again now, except to say by way of preface to today's musical selection, that shared musical experiences not only make for lasting memories, but can also be the stuff that keeps a friendship going -- even if that friendship exists mainly by overseas communication.

     I have many such long-distance friends, but one in particular shares my love of the piano, pianists, and piano repertoire. Though not himself a professional pianist, he does play, and his knowledge of piano playing is sufficient to enable him to listen with ears as discerning and critical as my own. Our letters almost always mention some pianist or other, a particular recording, and strong recommendations thereof. In those very rare times when we actually see each other in person, our conversation inevitably turns to music in general and pianists in particular, and if possible, we like to listen to something together.

     One afternoon during one of our rare in-person visits, my friend introduced me to a live recording of Arturo Benedetti Michelangeli playing Beethoven's "Emperor" Concerto. Though I knew Benedetti Michelangeli's work, I'd never heard his interpretation of the "Emperor," live or otherwise. Listening to it that rainy afternoon, I was much impressed by the sheer arc of his performance, its cohesiveness, and the logic of his pacing which gives this interpretation its power. That, plus a very good lunch prepared by my friend, made for an unforgettable afternoon indeed, one that years later I commemorated in a poem.

 

         The Memory of Music

 

          Listen with me.

          I'll stretch a lifetime from a single afternoon

          of Benedetti Michelangeli.  Each note

          of Ludwig's "Emperor" will drop in memory's pool

          and ring on ring go rippling through the silent years

          without you.  All the sounds we share will resonate

          on friendship's timeless stream, and when at night I lie

          asleep, the waves will carry me to where you lie

          awakening in ochre light.  In music's craft,

          oceans are crossed.

 

          (01/11, first published in WestWard Quarterly )

 

     Note in this video (which, thankfully, gives us the concerto in its entirety) how Benedetti Michelangeli paces the opening flourishes, how he manages to sustain the chord progression and direction of the whole section, which can sometimes seem, in lesser hands, very fragmented. In the second movement, note his beautiful use of portato (not staccato, but a lifting of the hand between notes that are, at the same time, connected with the damper pedal) which makes every note of those downward passages sound like gentle raindrops (or perhaps teardrops); note also the lack of that sentimentality so prevalent in contemporary interpretations. He simply lets the plaintive beauty of Beethoven's melody shine in and of itself. Personally, I'd like a bit more brashness and exuberance in the third movement; nevertheless, there is a certain élan and a not unwelcome elegance in this reading.

 

A Tribute to My Old Friend Wolfie

     It's Wolfie's birthday today—Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, that is—and I just wanted to take a moment to thank him for everything he's given me and done for me.
     Our friendship got off to a bit of a rocky start. Before Wolfie and I met, my best musical friend was Johann (Sebastian Bach). Johann and I hit it off from the very beginning. It seems my hands were made to play his music, and my sensibilities felt at home with it. Whenever I played or listened to him, I felt an almost visceral connection; something ancient and sacred stirred in the depths of my soul. Our friendship triggered my lifelong passion for early music.
     Maybe because I was so naturally in tune with Johann, I was initially uncomfortable with Wolfie. I can't remember what my first Mozart piece was—I suppose it was the Sonata in C, K. 545, the first Mozart sonata for most young pianists. However, I do remember that my first Mozart concerto happened to be one of his most difficult, the D Major No. 26 ("Coronation"). Why that particular one? Just because my teacher, Myrna von Nimitz, happened to have a score of it at hand when she decided I should try a Mozart concerto. I was 14 at the time.
     Now, Myrna had a slightly manipulative streak. While I struggled to make sense of Mozart—the subtlety of him, his humor, pathos, elegance, and exuberance—Myrna constantly reminded me that another of her students, who happened to be my age and (at that time) at the same pianistic level, was a natural whiz at Mozart. She never experienced anything like the struggle I was going through. Myrna never wasted an opportunity to compare my Mozart with hers, and always unfavorably. Maybe she was trying to light a fire under me; who knows?
     I don't know if it actually was Myrna's jibes, or something mysterious in my musical makeup, but somehow "things" fell into place between Wolfie and me, luckily before I began using his Concerto 26 in competitions (and earning prizes with it). All I do know is, once he and I finally meshed, we became the very best of friends. He, along with Johann, was my "calling card" composer, my specialty. Our friendship grew even stronger when I moved years later from solo pianist to opera coach and répétiteur; never was I so happy as when I was assigned to a Mozart opera. And when my technique and musical sensibilities needed to be purged of too much Puccini, Strauss, or Wagner, or one of the many harrowing new operas HGO was so fond of premiering, I would take out my well-worn score of Mozart sonatas and avail myself of their purifying elixir.
     I thank you, dearest Wolfie, not only for your genius, but for keeping me sane and musically grounded. You are a true friend and I will always love you.

My Visit to Lucca, Part Two

     29 June 1997.   Worked all morning on Figaro recits, then after a good lunch of spaghetti alle vongole (clams) and insalata verde (green salad), Vittorio drove me to Pisa. It really is a shock of the most pleasant kind to walk in through the gate and see suddenly before your eyes the You-Know-What. Some people are surprised at its smallness, but I was prepared, having done so much reading and watched so much Rick Steves. The whole piazza truly is a marvel. I went through the three buildings, then we went walking around the city. I was fortunate to see one of those parades (I forget what they're called) in which the locals dress up in costumes and throw banners around. We passed by Galileo's house, and also an outdoor bookstand loaded with literature, but I disciplined myself and just bought Northanger Abbey (in Italian).

     30 June 1997.   What the hell is wrong with having leftovers? At every meal here, Delia says, "We have to finish this, or we throw it away." I love leftovers! My mother has them all the time, with almost every meal she cooks. The potatoes that Delia made yesterday, for instance -- they were cubed and baked with rosemary and olive oil -- why couldn't she heat the remainder in a pan today for lunch? They would have been great that way! I just don't get it. And she makes me feel guilty if I don't finish everything. I can't! What does she want me to do, throw up???

     1 July 1997.   Well, at least I can go for long walks. And last night I took advantage of the stairs, climbing up and down, up and down.

     It rained on and off this morning, but by the afternoon it was glorious. I walked the route Dan and I discovered, up to the church and back to the main road, making the circle twice around. Tomorrow I'll do it 3 times. I just hope all this walking will burn off the food.

     Yesterday for dinner, Vittorio made a delicious vegetable frittata (I think that's where those leftover potatoes went). Today at lunch there was trout caught from a nearby stream, deep-fried in an egg batter; fresh, ripe tomatoes and cucumbers plus a plain green salad; at dinner there were light-as-air potato gnocchi wth pomodoro sauce, mortadella, cauliflower, and un pochino di tiramisu.

     My lessons are going pretty well, though we're still reviewing grammar that I already know. No harm in reviewing, but I need to push ahead. I feel as if my speking hasn't improved as much as it should. I get nervous. My oral reading, however, has gotten much better -- the phrasing, inflection, etc. -- and I understand what I'm reading. I still can't understand much of the news on TV because the language is too sophisticated and they speak so fast.

     2 July 1997.   Today was a full, tiring day. I got up at the usual time, had breakfast at about 9, then we had 2 hours of grammar (I should have asked to fare una pausa after the first hour; two straight hours is too tiring for my brain), then I went to the post office; back for pranzo at one, then a brisk walk along my usual route; did a bit of laundry, had another hour of grammar, practiced, had a relatively light dinner. It is now 9.20 and I'm exhausted.

     For grammar, we're using the book they use at the Universita' per Stranieri a Perugia. Each chapter begins with a dialogue which features whatever grammatical formula the chapter deals with. Today Delia made me recount the dialogue in my own words. But she keeps wanting to prompt me. Every time I pause to grope for a word or grammatical structure, she prompts me. I have to ask her not to do that. First of all, I have to think for myself even if I need 5 minutes to formulate a complicated sentence; secondly, most of the time she guesses wrongly what I want to say, then I get confused.

     4 July 1997.   Buon compleanno, Stati Uniti!

     Last night after dinner, we had coffee at -- I don't know their last name. Il Dottore (a. k. a. Aldo), his wife, and their daughter Elena (in Italian, the accent is on the first syllable, much prettier than our "E-lay-nuh").

     Elena is 17 and studies piano and something called canto leggero, which is technically "pop" singing, otherwise known as belting and whining. She invited me to go with her today to her voice lesson in town. Her teacher lives on the top floor of a palazzo. She's a real character. During the hour or so we were there, she must have answered the phone about five times, then finally she took it off the hook. Elena is a very nice girl, not unintelligent and not without some talent, though I worry about the unhealthy way she belts. The lesson took place in a very small, crowded room overlooking the steet. Part of her training is learning how to sing with a microphone, which she did, and it was extremely painful to my ears in that tiny room. She wants to show me around Lucca on Monday. Nice kid, very open.

     Her father, il Dottore, picked us up then took me back to their house so that I could practice on their very nice piano a coda (literally, a "tailed" piano, or a grand piano). I've been working on the Bach G Major French Suite, the Mozart K. 576 Sonata, the Chopin A-flat Ballade and his "Andante Spianato and Grande Polonaise." All of which are going amazingly well. Since these are all "old" pieces for me, I can judge very clearly how much my technique has improved. Everything is so much easier! Very gratifying -- especially in the Chopin. How well I remember struggling so hard with some of those sections. I'm a big girl now, with a big girl technique!

     I still play everything as if A. is listening; maybe that's why I've been playing so well.

     To be continued. . . .

Compensations in the Life of a Spinster

     Somehow, I always knew that I'd never get married. I know, I know—"you never know." But I knew. And I know. I mean, come on, I've already passed the half-century mark. Not that my life has been lacking in romance, serious relationships, messy relationships, downright wrong relationships, joy, heartache, passion—any of that. And Lord knows I've had my fill of yearning from afar, otherwise known as "unrequited love," which fortunately became a very productive poetic inspiration, alla Dante and Petrarch.

     Ever since I can remember, my romantic nature has dominated my life, manifesting itself in crush after crush on boys who were more interested in my friends than in me. Metaphorically speaking, I was always the bridesmaid, never the bride. To my youthful reasoning, my being constantly passed over was due to my looks: olive skin, flat nose, full lips. Your basic Asian-American geek, with thick glasses to boot. Keep in mind, this was back in the '60s and early '70s, before "exotically ethnic" was a turn-on. Back then, we girls all wanted to look like Cheryl Tiegs. Of course, when I got to college, it was a whole different ballgame and I was actually grateful for my looks, but as a pre-teen and adolescent, I was too insecure and shackled by social anxiety disorder to rely on my personality; in my eyes, I had none. All I had was musical talent, which tended to intimidate boys rather than attract them to me.

     That same musical talent proved to be a boon in other ways, a compensation for many heartaches and ego bruises. It gave me my life and my living, to quote John Denver, and quite an exciting, rewarding life and living they were, too. Music boosted my self-confidence and eventually tamed (though not quite cured) my social anxiety disorder. The piano became my confidante and faithful companion, though, as in all intense relationships, we had our bitter battles and dark days of not speaking to each other. I admit, I was even abusive at times, beating my fists on its keys and screaming expletives, knowing damn well it couldn't fight or scream back. But the piano never deserted me. Ultimately, I had to desert it, having come to the realization that we could never live together in harmony.

     I exchanged that great, all-consuming relationship for a much easier, less demanding one—the organ. I don't call myself a real organist, mind you, though I did teach myself, with the aid of a good book, proper organ technique (very different from the piano), including pedals; and like a real organist, I wear bona fide organ shoes when I play. However, I have absolutely no interest in playing solo organ music; all I want is to play hymns and play them very well. My organ playing is purposely limited to Mass, and in the chapel where I play, it is not necessary to have a solo prelude and postlude; just the hymns and the sung parts of the Ordinary. In this way, I am able to avoid a lot of practicing, which through my thirty-seven years as a pianist has proved to be a major threat to my sanity and blood pressure.

     All in all, music has been a wonderfully satisfying compensation for a rocky and sometimes non-existent love life; even when the piano and I were on the outs, we always loved each other deep down.

     I mentioned earlier that an unrequited love may spawn poetic inspiration. In my case, it spawned The Distant Belovèd, an ongoing, ever-expanding collection of sonnets and lyrics. At this writing, it consists of over fifty pieces (and many rejects). I write other kinds of poetry as well, not just love poems, but I had to find a creative way to—now, the Italians have a particularly charming word for it—sfogarmi, vent myself. When I first began The Distant Belovèd, I had no intention of ever having it published, either in part or as a whole. It was purely personal, an extension of my journal. But my sister, after reading a few of the poems, convinced me to submit them, and I am happy that some have found a home in small poetry journals, along with several of my non-love poems. Who knows if I'll ever try to get the whole of The Distant Belovèd published? Editors today don't seem to go for love poems, especially of the formal variety (formal poetry is poetry that has meter and/or rhyme, as opposed to free verse, which has neither), and some of mine do, I suppose, border on what they would call "sentimental." But hey, it's hard not to be sentimental about love. And what exactly is "sentimental," anyway? If it brings a smile to the lips or a tear to the eye, is it such a literary crime? Does that make me a hack? The Nicholas Sparks of poets?

     So poetry has been another great compensation, though not exactly lucrative. . . .

     But the biggest compensation of all for being a spinster is being able to spend these past few years helping my parents. I will always be grateful to have been here for my father when he needed me and my mother most; now that he's gone, I can still be here for my beloved mother. Maybe deep down I always knew, as Beth March did in Little Women, that I was never destined to fly far from home, and that my true ministry lies right here with those I love most. I regret nothing, and have everything to be thankful for.

     And I care not one whit that I ended that sentence with a preposition.

OFFERING

You gave me a heart too large
for the tiny life I've led.
Hard-pressed have I been to know
what to do with the surplus,
the virgin flesh burgeoning
in the hollow of my breast.
What will You have me do, then?

Would You take it partly spent—
or give it, like the talent
that was buried in the field,
to one less fearful than I?
Or would You have me fill it
with as much unspoken love
as any one heart can hold?

How many times have I stood
in the marketplace, this heart
too large in my trembling hands,
this blushing eager maiden
of a heart; but no one came.

My heart will not go empty.
I will sow it with the years'
silent loves and silent wounds
and reap a harvest of prayer,
place it at Your gate, in hope
that its yield may be enough.


["Offering" was first published in Dreamcatcher]

The Tunnel-Visioned Flunkie

     High school was almost a complete bust for me. If it weren't for choir, I think I would have gone mad. Fortunately our high school choir was one of the best in the state, certainly the best in the city, and our sense of competitive pride was extremely high and nurtured an already robust (perhaps too robust) musical competitiveness in me. I made it to All-State Choir three years in a row (I missed my freshman year, as I spent that year in a Catholic girls school), winning first in my voice division every year at every level (region, area, and state) except once, when I foolishly had pizza right before my audition and had to fight through major cheese phlegm while singing.

     Between choir and the increasing demands my piano study made on me, I grew lazier than ever scholastically, neglecting homework and skipping class to practice in the choir room. I even managed to skip nearly an entire semester of Latin. Every summer, I'd have to make up at least one class that I flunked due to my laziness and lack of interest. I believe it was my junior English teacher who told me I had tunnel vision -- that I could only see one thing, music, and that one thing would never carry me through life and would prevent me from ever being a well-rounded person.. Then it was that my counselor, frustrated at having to summon me to her office at least twice a month for one thing or another, told me point blank that I'd never amount to anything. When it came time for graduation and I wound up being one of only a handful of kids in my class that didn't receive a diploma, it looked as if my counselor was right. I never did graduate high school.

     My mother came to my rescue -- the first of two crucial rescues she made in my life, the second being her praying me back to the Church. The summer after my non-graduation, I won a Ewing-Halsell Foundation scholarship to the International Round Top Festival, a summer program for young pianists and string players. There I studied for six weeks with the renowned pianist James Dick and performed in several concerts. While I was there, my mother, without telling me, went to Trinity University to speak with one of the piano faculty, Andrew Mihalso; he had known me since judging me in a competition when I was small, and had wanted me to study with him ever since. He and my mother appealed to the dean, who examined my SAT scores (before I found out I would not be graduating, I had taken my SAT and applied to three colleges, including Trinity). He found my scores to be very high, high enough to justify admitting me -- provided I didn't actually matriculate for a degree.

     So the flunkie lucked out. With the help of my mother and a teacher who believed in my talent, I spent five years studying piano and voice at Trinity, earning no degree, but coming away with several competition prizes and many performances under my belt. It was also during college that I began coaching singers, mostly my fellow students; but then one weekend a Wagnerian bass named Simon Estes came to sing with the San Antonio Symphony and wanted to coach his next role while he was in town. Someone gave him my name, and I spent two hours one afternoon working with him on Handel's Saul. That was my first real professional coaching, and the start of a 25-year career.

The Young Poet

     When I was in the fifth grade, my teacher asked each of us to write a poem. Whether or not she told us the real reason, I don't remember (I probably wasn't paying attention, as usual), but it was that she planned to enter one of them in the Young Pegasus Poetry Contest, a city-wide contest sponsored by the San Antonio Public Library for budding poets grades 1-12. I wrote a concrete poem (a poem that has a significant shape on the page) in the shape of a diamond called "Sun and Moon" which was chosen as one of the winners in the fifth grade division. The results for being a winner were publication in that year's Young Pegasus anthology, a luncheon at which all the winners met and shared their poems, and a taped television appearance in which the older winners read their own poems and the younger had their poems read by one of the judges.
     The only person I remember at that winners' luncheon was the then 17-year-old Naomi Shihab (Nye), who is today one of this country's most respected and prolific poets. I remember her, not for her poetry, but for her appearance that day -- she looked like a poet to me: loose, flowing clothes, waist-long hair in a braid, very sort of bohemian.
     The television appearance was rather embarrassing for me and, I imagine, for the rest of the younger winners who weren't allowed to read our own pieces. Instead, each of us had to perch on a stool doing absolutely nothing except look straight at the camera, goofy and uncomfortable, while listening to his or her poem being read. What on earth were they thinking, putting us through such embarrassment?!
     This did not put me off writing poetry, however. Through middle school, I wrote quite a lot of it, compiling my work into a collection called Poems of a Childhood Romance. Except for drafts of a few of the poems, it has since disappeared. (Judging from those extant drafts, it's no great loss!) I wrote a few more in high school, but by then I was more interested in writing songs in the style of Joni Mitchell, Judy Collins, John Denver, etc., and I dreamt of wandering round the country with my guitar and a knapsack, earning my weekly bread by singing my ballads in smoky, dimly lit coffee houses. Eventually, of course, I intended to meet a fellow balladeer, preferably a James Taylor type, build a cabin with him in the mountains, have twenty children, and live off the land.
     On the other hand, I was still the aspiring concert pianist, giving performances and entering (but hardly ever winning) competitions. This persona dressed more neatly than the balladeer, enjoyed meals at stylish restaurants (Ms. von's treat), and dreamt of dwelling in marble halls, single, but with a string of wealthy and powerful lovers.
     In both these fantasies, I never stopped writing in one form or another.
     When I was in the eighth grade I followed my sister Alice's example and started to keep a journal. Being an aspiring writer, I never meant my journal to be private, but passed it round among my friends (is it any wonder I eventually decided to blog?). I also wrote short stories, which were really my own original episodes of The Partridge Family, all of which were centered around Keith (David Cassidy). There was even a rough outline and one chapter of a novel entitled Sisters and Lovers, a tale of two orphaned sisters in early 20th-century San Francisco; the elder was prudent and practical, the younger impulsive and romantic. If this sounds suspiciously like an American Sense and Sensibility, let me hasten to say I hadn't even heard of that novel at that time, much less read it. However, I had read Little Women and was very much influenced by Alcott's style -- in fact, that was the start of my love affair with the semi-colon.
     The novel, poetry, and song writing all fizzled out (temporarily) by my senior year in high school, but I continued to keep a journal and my dreams of becoming a concert pianist.

The Anxiety-Ridden Chorus Master

     It is one of the greatest ironies of my life that I spent so much of it working with choruses, given that I've always had a deep-rooted aversion toward that job. I wrote before that I was enlisted at a very early age (third grade) into accompanying for school choir concerts; by the time I was in middle school, I was official accompanist and rehearsal pianist for our mixed choir and madrigal group. (It wasn't until seventh grade that my choir director discovered I also had a good voice and had me sing in all the a cappella pieces.) Had I known that being rehearsal pianist also meant actually taking over in the absence of the choir director, I would have turned tail and run.

     There was one particularly painful day in the eighth grade when Miss E. had to be absent and she asked me to take the class, with one of my classmates at the piano. My pianist belonged to that elite group of pretty, popular girls that lived in the richer neighborhood; they were already under the impression (thanks to the veneer of cool aloofness behind which I hid my social anxiety disorder) that I thought my musical gifts made me superior to everyone else. In truth, she and her group, many of whom were in the choir, intimidated me to the point that I was certain my nervous shaking was visible to all as I took my place that day behind the director's music stand. I had to stand there in front of all those "prove yourself to us" faces and the ill-concealed smirk of my pianist, push my anxiety as far down into my shoes as I could, and just give it my best. I got through that agonizing hour, but not without witnessing, after the bell rang, my pianist and her friends giggling and mimicking my nervously rigid conducting gestures. Perhaps anyone would have been hurt by this, but I was a hyper-sensitive child with low self-esteem; a more confident child would probably have shaken off the dust from her shoes and moved on. As it was, the wound they inflicted that day, perhaps unconsciously, rankled deep in me through my year as student director for our high school choir, and much later throughout my fifteen years as Assistant Chorus Master at the Houston Grand Opera. Not even the genuine affection and respect the HGO Chorus and I had for each other could quite cure my aversion for running rehearsals and sectionals.

     Behind it also were the high expectations of my teachers and elders, my own high standards (which grew more and more impossible with each passing year), an enormous fear of failure, and the equally enormous if irrational fear of being found out as a sham. For all my talent and training, and all my bravado, I was still at the core that awkward, inept, and insecure child.

     You might be asking why, then, I consented to be HGO's Assistant Chorus Master. Deep down, I knew I could do it, and do it well. I had all the necessary tools for what that job entailed, including, by that time, good conducting skills (thanks to lessons from two gifted and generous conductors, Ward Holmquist and Patrick Summers). And I had the unflagging support and confidence of the Chorus Master, Richard Bado, for whom I had, and will always have, tremendous respect. So I forced myself to ignore the sickening churning in my stomach before every rehearsal and sectional I had to run, and told myself (to quote my fellow S. A. D. sufferer, Mr. Darcy) "I will conquer this!" And conquer it I did. That terrified young girl who was mocked by her peers grew up to be a good Assistant Chorus Master (and, for some shows, Chorus Master) -- even if she never really liked being one.

    

Enter "Ms. von"

     When Peter Martinez moved away to graduate school, I had been studying with him for two years. It was now time for me to study with his teacher, one of the best piano teachers in the city, Myrna von Nimitz. I was then 11 years old.

     "Ms. von," a native Texan, had just moved into a large, newly built colonial style house on the north side of town. She and her Russian husband Igor filled their home with Louis XV furniture; valuable period paintings covered the walls and bronze statuary perched on every table. A Steinway concert grand dominated the front room. These surroundings were a bit overwhelming for me, as was the person of Myrna von Nimitz herself: I remember her as tall, though she might not actually have been; her slenderness and the white-blond hair sculpted smoothly into a high upsweep made her seem so to me. Large, expressive, almond-shaped brown eyes framed by precise, dark brows were the only things that lent color to her ivory face; the surprisingly small, pale mouth beneath the narrow nose was a mere textural element. Elegantly dressed, shoulders fashionably stooped, she would sit in a low Louis XV chair by the piano, one poodle in her lap and another lounging at her feet, a cigarette dangling from her long, languid hand. She was in her early- to mid-thirties at that time, though she could have been almost any age from any era. A true original.

     Peter Martinez's youthful maleness had exacerbated my social anxiety disorder, but Ms. von's flamboyant elegance and refined tastes fascinated me. Perhaps that was the beginning of my own Niles Crane-like fondness for the finer things in life; in fact, I know it was. Still, I remained mostly silent in my lessons, and Ms. von tried her best to draw me out those first few months, to no avail. Then one day, as I was playing the Bach G minor Concerto, I was suddenly and profoundly moved by the music; so much so, tears began streaming down my face. This was not the first time music affected me to the point of weeping, but I had always kept my tears to myself. Ms. von, perplexed and concerned, took me out to her wooded back yard and proceeded to ask me if I was having trouble at home or at school. When I didn't answer, she then began to talk of random things to put me at ease, until finally I stammered out, "It -- it's just the music. It's so -- so beautiful."

     Ms. von was not only relieved by my confession, she was delighted that I had a genuine love for music, and, as she told me afterward, a deep soul. From that moment on, I regarded her as a friend and mentor.

     The summer after my freshman year in high school, Ms. von took her piano students and a few college students to Europe -- a two-week tour of the continent, then a month in London taking music courses at Goldsmiths College. It was not only my first time abroad, but my first time flying. I might have known I'd be a bad flyer. To this day I cannot board a plane without first taking something for motion sickness. However, the half pack of cigarettes I smoked before boarding that day probably didn't help! I was only fourteen at the time, but my attire and bearing made me seem at least four years older -- and I don't exaggerate. People were always mistaking me then for a college student. My mother frowned on jeans and insisted that her children dress neatly at all times; Ms. von further influenced my taste in clothes. My social anxiety disorder, still very much with me, was the true reason behind my cool, seemingly composed and confident exterior. If I couldn't speak to anyone with ease, then I could at least give the impression that I didn't want to speak to them.

     My outer composure and mature appearance backfired, however, when one of my London professors began to have a personal interest in me. I was completely unaware of this until Ms. von told me she had had a word with him, telling him I was only fourteen. In my total innocence, I thought he took time to play duets with me just because he found it fun. I still saw myself as ugly and stiff, though Ms. von often told me I was growing up to be an attractive and poised young lady.

     Throughout my high school years, I competed in many competitions, always placing near the top, but never capturing a top prize until my senior year, when I finally won the San Antonio Symphony Young Artist Competition. Performing, too, became a frequent thing. I revelled in being onstage, though I did always suffer considerable nerves before walking out. Once I was behind the keyboard, however, the audience became a faceless, harmless presence, and I could lose myself, my feelings of awkwardness and inadequacy, in the music. For that short precious time, I felt accepted.

The Young Pianist

      In the few years between that fateful piano recital where Myrna von Nimitz (or "Ms. von," as all her students called her) evaluated my talent, and the time I actually began studying with her, I continued lessons with Mrs. Woliver, then with a jolly, Charlotte Greenwood-type woman named Mrs. Plewes (who also gave me my first lessons in music theory), and then with a college student of Ms. von, Peter Martinez. By the time I had my first lesson with Peter, I was in the fifth grade and had begun accompanying choir concerts at my elementary school -- this, though I didn't know it then, was the start of a long career working with choruses. My classmates were well aware of my ambition to be a concert pianist; some were drawn to me by my musical abilities, a few kept a wary distance, and others were simply indifferent.

     Other than Mr. Trent in the second grade, I had never had a male teacher. I suppose if Peter had been much older, more of a father figure (like Mr. Trent), I would have felt a bit more comfortable with him; but his being a college student and not much older than my siblings caused my already painful shyness to deepen. I was highly susceptible to crushes (still on boys who preferred blue-eyed blondes) and anyone of the male persuasion younger than my father made me nervous. Every week Peter came to our house, smelling wonderfully of English Leather, and I would sit shaking at the keyboard, hardly uttering a word. It was a wonder that I progressed at all, but he was a very good teacher and brought out the best in me. He introduced the art of phrasing and articulation into my playing, taught me the principles of rubato and romanticism with my first Chopin pieces, and helped me to "loosen up" with the Gershwin Preludes. He also furthered my studies in music theory. However, my lifelong battle with what I call "lazy ambition" reared its head during this period -- I no longer enjoyed practicing, and put in only the bare minimum between lessons, not even an hour a day. Because of my natural ability, I was able to get away with it, which was very unfortunate, especially in later years.

     Under Peter's tutelage, I entered my first competitions, earning consistently high marks; I also gave, at age 11, my first solo recital, and in the following year served as accompanist for the first time in a solo vocal recital given by my middle school choir director. It was in this vocal recital that I played my first art songs -- among them Brahms' "Botshcaft" (in six flats, thank you very much) and a group of Berg -- as well my first operatic arias, "Ain't It a Pretty Night" and "The Trees on the Mountains" from Carlisle Floyd's Susannah, and Norina's aria from Don Pasquale. I also earned my first fee as an accompanist, so starting my professional career.

     As my talent developed, so did my monstrous ego. Playing the piano well was the only thing that set me apart from my peers and made me feel special. Scholastically, I was falling off a bit, my laziness again the culprit. Popularity-wise, I still felt ugly and awkward, too shy with boys and intimidated by prettier girls. The keyboard was the only place I felt, not just equal, but superior. So I cherished that feeling of superiority and held onto it like a life preserver. My parents were, as parents are understandably wont to be, very proud of their child's talent, and showed me off to their friends at parties; my sisters, however, kept me in my place, again, as is siblings' wont. I can't say they (my sisters) made a conscious effort to bring me down off my musical high horse; they just treated me in the usual way older sisters treat younger sisters, sometimes coddling me, sometimes ignoring me, and sometimes being plain rotten. Most people would say that specially gifted children should be treated normally, to compensate for and balance their "specialness" and guard against conceit; in my case, however, starting out with an abnormally low self-esteem, I made it my mission to build myself up as much as I could through the piano. I simply came to love feeling special, and, like any addict, the more attention paid me because of my talent, the more I craved it.

Mr. Darcy, Me, and S. A. D.

     Mr. Darcy was so very misjudged and misunderstood. But then, that was partly due to the times in which he lived (yes, I know he's fictional; just indulge me for a moment). It is my belief that Mr. Darcy suffered from what is now known as social anxiety disorder, or S. A. D., an affliction which was unheard of in Austen's day -- and I believe this because I, too, once suffered greatly from it, and still do, to a much lesser degree. Mr. Darcy had all the classic symptoms: difficulty making friends, difficulty holding conversations not only with strangers but even with acquaintances, avoiding said acquaintances in the street or other public places (and going to ridiculous lengths to avoid them), and generally shielding himself behind a veneer of composure which was invariably mistaken by others as hauteur or pride. Plus, I suspect that he, like myself, sometimes broke out in a sweat or was suddenly convulsed by uncontrollable trembling when pressed into conversation.

     Yes, Mr. Darcy, I understand and empathize.

     The foundations of what I perceive to be Darcy's social anxiety disorder are quite clear to me. His excellent mother died when he was still at a vulnerable age; he had to share his father's affection with an annoyingly gregarious and comely companion who grew up to be an unprincipled scoundrel; after the death of his father, and while himself still a very young man, he was charged with the care of his sister who was very nearly seduced by the aforementioned scoundrel; and all his life he had to deal with the likes of Caroline Bingley throwing themselves at his head solely because of his wealth, handsomeness, and position in society. No wonder he withdrew into a distrustful shell.

     I first became aware of social anxiety disorder when I read an article about it in Parade magazine back in the late '90s. Reading it was like reading my own life story -- accounts of people ducking into bathrooms at work for fear of having to speak to an approaching colleague; or spending parties tucked in a corner, shaking nervously behind a potted palm. Far from being disheartened at recognizing myself in this article, I was immensely relieved that I was finally able to put a name to my life-long suffering, though at that point I had already made great strides toward conquering it. More about that later.

     In 2002, I began to see a therapist, mainly to explore my then current recovery of my religious faith and the inexplicable pull I was feeling toward monastic life. As all therapists deem it necessary to delve into their patients' pasts, I told her that I was the youngest of six children, that the sibling nearest me in age was four years older, a gap that seems much larger when young. Consequently, I spent much of my very early years alone at home while my sisters and brother were in school. My only companions, besides my mother, were Captain Kangaroo, Lucy and Ethel, and my stuffed animals; there were no children my age nearby until the Taylors moved into the house next door. I made a sort of friend of their youngest, Caroline, but constantly listening to everyone around me praise her prettiness and lively personality only drove me further into the shell that had already begun forming. I became convinced that I was ugly, inept, and absolutely no fun to be around; I found it increasingly painful just to speak to people and preferred solitude to shrinking into silence in the company of others. "You had social anxiety disorder!" my therapist exclaimed. So my self-diagnosis had been correct.

     When I started going to school, I found myself far ahead of my classmates, thanks to the home schooling my sisters had given me, but my intellectual advantage put me at rather a disadvantage in making friends. Having crushes on boys who only had eyes for blue-eyed blondes didn't help either. It was then that I forged my life-long preference for keeping a very few close friends whom I could trust completely. A couple of those childhood companions are my friends to this day.

     Since I showed a love and natural bent for music, my parents decided I should take piano lessons. I began studying with a Mrs. Woliver, a very capable neighborhood teacher, shortly after my seventh birthday. My lessons were mostly silent on my part, as talking was not my strong point, but Mrs. Woliver managed to pique my interest and encouraged me to practice at least a half hour a day. I progressed very quickly, and at my second public performance at age eight, a recital featuring all of Mrs. Woliver's students, I met my future primary piano teacher, Myrna von Nimitz. After hearing my insightful and technically brilliant renditions (I'm being sarcastic) of Beethoven's "Für Elise" and a jaunty little number called "Haydn-Go-Seek" which was based on themes from that composer's "Surprise" symphony, she announced to me and my parents that I had the makings of a concert pianist, and she would be glad to take me as a student, but I'd have to wait a few years. In the meantime, she would place me under the care of one of her college students.

     I was elated by this news, of course, but I also felt oddly vindicated. The awkward, brainy little nerd that all the cute boys and popular girls scorned had found an outlet through which she could ease her loneliness and feel admired and respected, if not liked. She could hide her painful shyness in public, as it were, by displaying her musical talent before an audience she didn't have to look in the eye.

To be continued. . . .

A Taste of Monastic Life

Just to refresh your memory: before a woman officially enters a monastery, she usually makes a visit called an "aspirancy," which lasts anywhere from a few days to a few weeks or even months. This visit, during which she stays inside the monastery's enclosure walls as a temporary member of the community, enables her to experience firsthand the monastic life, the customs and horarium (schedule) of that particular community; more importantly, it gives both her and the community a chance to determine whether or not she has a true monastic vocation, and whether she is a right fit for that community and vice-versa.

The following passages are taken from my journal.


25 February 2004

     Tomorrow I leave for Lufkin. I can't seem to sleep. Guess I'm too excited. Such a completely different life, a completely different world from the one I live in now! Most of my life has been spent working in a business in which everything depends on talent, praise, and criticism. You are either being judged, or you're judging someone else. Your job hangs on questions like, "How well does she play? Is she a 'conductor's pianist'; does she play 'orchestrally'? Does she know how to coach? Do the singers like her?" I suppose success in any profession depends on ability, talent -- in fact, that's one of the world's biggest truisms -- but that can get all confused with the person, and sometimes in dangerous ways. It seems to me that the focus on one's talents vs. shortcomings can become so intense as to cause that person to believe that those are the only criteria by which he/she is deemed valuable. Especially in today's society, where too often a person's job is his life.
     No, life can be better than that. Now that I know I am valuable in God's eyes, regardless of the gifts he's given me, I never want to settle for, or rely on, the opinions and judgment of men. If tomorrow I lose the use of my hands, I am still precious in his eyes. I no longer want to care about praise and admiration and applause. But I know, because I've cared about those things all my life, learning not to care will be the most difficult thing I'll ever try to do.
     I'm beginning to understand that this is part of what St. Catherine of Siena calls "true discernment" -- a knowledge of self, and how God works in you and through you; the honest appraisal of one's faults, the things that hinder one's quest for perfection and union with God.


1 March 2004, Lufkin

     I arrived at the monastery last Thursday around 12.30 -- a beautiful day, crisp and sunny. I was immediately taken by St. Mary Veronica to be fed in the guest dining room, but only after a few minutes I was summoned to the Peace Parlor to be greeted by Sr. Mary Annunciata (Prioress), Sr. Mary William, and Sr. Mary Jeremiah.
     The meeting in the parlor was brief. I was then escorted by Sr. Mary Veronica to the enclosure door. This was the moment I’d read about in so many nuns’ autobiographies! There, in a narrow hallway just beyond a small vestibule, was the majority of the community, lined up in 2 rows, faces smiling in welcome. I made my way through them, alternating from one side to the other, embracing each sister. Some, of course, I’d already met on my previous visits. I came to the only blue-clad figure among them, their postulant Adrienne. She just entered at the start of the year. She kept saying, “Oh, I’m so happy you’re here!” It must be very lonely, the first months as a postulant.
     After greeting everyone, I was shown into the oratory where I knelt before a statue of Our Lady of Fatima, and Sr. Mary Annunciata said a blessing. Then the novices, Adrienne, Sr. Mary Jeremiah, Sr. Mary William, and Sr. Maria Cabrini took me through the main building, out along the cloister walk, and to the novitiate building for a “get-to-know-you” recreation, just the 8 of us. I was happy to see a grand piano in the novitiate’s community room. It’s a brown Aeolian in fair shape, but needs tuning and voicing badly. There was class in the afternoon (they have class every weekday except Wednesday, at 4). Right now we're studying the Gospel of John -- my favorite Gospel; I’m so glad!
     After supper, I went with the novices to work in the kitchen. My job was to help dry pots and pans and large utensils at the “pot sink.” Dishes, cafeteria trays, glasses, and silverware are washed in the “dish room,” which has one of those super-fast, restaurant-style dishwashers -- you fill up a big rack with dirty dishes, push them through a sort of mini-garage door; just a short couple of minutes later, ed ecco! Clean dishes, piping hot!
     Then evening recreation, this time with the whole community in the main building’s community room. That first evening, they had a “circle” recreation in my honor: all the sisters sat in a big circle with me and the Prioress, Sub-Prioress, and Novice Directress sitting at the top of it; I told them what I could about myself, and they asked lots of questions. Of course, they were extremely interested in my work and the world of opera.
     Friday I helped peel and core mounds of Granny Smith apples. Saturday mornings are devoted to housecleaning. My assignment was the novitiate's community room and computer room -- dust, vacuum, and mop. They of course use old-fashioned hand-wrung mops, Swiffers with their disposable mopcloths not being ecnomical and therefore not in accordance with the vow of poverty. Never mind the fact that hand-wrung mops can be very unsanitary!
     Monday morning, kitchen duty. I prepared toast points for dinner (their big midday meal), buttering the bread, topping each triangle with two kinds of cheese and a tomato slice, then Sr. Mary Thomas grilled them. I'm very good with assembly line work.
     After kitchen duty, I was taken to the laundry where I was shown by Sr. Mary Rose how to clean and vacuum the giant lint trap from their enormous dryer. The amount of lint that came out of that thing was enough to weave a whole set of sheets! Then I had to vacuum the very large laundry room. Someone needs to donate new vacuum cleaners to these sisters. The one in the novitiate looks to be circa the Viet Nam war. The one in the laundry ain’t much younger. Adrienne mopped the concrete floor after I vacuumed, then I helped fold and bring clean stuff back to the kitchen and novitiate. We finished with about 3 minutes to spare before Midday Prayer. I was famished! When we went in to dinner, I looked proudly at my beautiful toast points. . . .
     Meals are eaten in silence (except on special feast days and “picnic days”); as you eat, you listen to the reader who reads a biography of a saint, or a book or article on Church History, or something on the spiritual life, etc. In this way, you are feeding both mind and body. The refectory in a monastery is regarded as a holy place, because every meal taken there commemorates the Last Supper. Therefore, it is also one of the places where silence is generally kept, aside from the reading at meals.


4 March 2004

     I had a long talk with Sr. Mary Jeremiah about this and that -- what one does with one’s bank account, property, etc. before entering, and about visits and correspondence.
     You usually keep your bank account(s) open until you take vows, just in case things don’t work out and you leave the monastery. Upon entering, you bring a dowry (money) which is also kept aside until you take your final vows, again for security in the event you should leave. One doesn’t want to go back to the outside world without money! If you do take final vows, making you a cloistered nun for the rest of your earthly life, then you can close your accounts.
     The correspondence part I’m sort of disappointed about, being an avid letter writer. But postulants and novices can only write to friends a few times a year; to family, twice a month. Visitors (family and friends) can be received, except during Advent and Lent. If one’s family lives far away and can only come once or twice a year, they may stay (at a local hotel at the monastery’s expense) for two days, and a sister may spend the whole time (except for Mass and the Divine Office) visiting with them in one of the parlors; she may even take her meals there.
     We also talked about how much more difficult it is for someone my age to give up the world and enter into a hidden life. She was very reassuring and comforting: “God knows how much you’re giving up. And he wouldn’t ask you to make such a sacrifice if he didn’t think you’d be happy. We sometimes forget that he wants our happiness.”
     But this morning I couldn’t help thinking of all the things I’m giving up. As I took my morning stroll, pacing up and down the path to the cemetery, I thought of my life -- all I’ve accomplished, how much I have to give as an opera coach, how I’d never see the English countryside that I’ve wanted to see ever since I can remember; or Venice and Verona, which are more recent dreams. And so, after Mass, I prayed very hard to Jesus and Mary to help me fight these temptations and to remember always that the Spirit put this desire to be a nun in my heart for a reason -- his reason, not mine.


Part Two of my aspirancy coming soon. . . .













             

Further Reflections on the Restoration of My Faith

After visiting all three monasteries, I made the momentous decision and sent an application for aspirancy to the Monastery of the Infant Jesus, the Dominican cloister in Lufkin. An aspirancy is an extended visit (anywhere from a couple of weeks to a couple of months) in which the aspirant lives inside the cloister as a temporary member of the community. This accomplishes two things: the aspirant experiences firsthand what monastic life is really like; and she determines whether that particular community is right for her—and vice-versa. Even if she likes the community, they may decide she isn't a right fit for them.

While awaiting acceptance for my aspirancy, I reflected further on the path that had led me to that point. Here are my journal entries from that time:

18 January 2004

     I was so glad to go to Mass this morning; I haven't been since Wednesday.

     Why did women stop wearing veils to Mass? It seems to me that some of the old reverence went out after Vatican II. What's wrong with wearing a veil for an hour? I don't mind pants on women, I wear them myself, as long as they're neat and not skin-tight or low on the hips. But I see spaghetti straps, tight jeans, even flip-flops! And boys coming to church in t-shirts and those awful baggy shorts, chewing gum! What ever happened to modesty, and showing respect for Our Lord?

     When I was little, we dressed our best for Mass and wore veils. Mine was of the round, doily type. Mom didn't let us cross our legs in church, and we certainly couldn't talk or even whisper. Our family, which numbered eight, took up an entire pew in Ft. Sam Houston's chapel no. 2. I remember Fr. Shockey with the "shockey-ng" blue eyes and equally shocking blue Camaro convertible; and down-to-earth, dry-humored Fr. Elias, who years later did Alice's funeral.

     I remember every Christmas, going to midnight Mass in our brand-new dresses, George and Dad in their sport coats and ties. We'd all pile into old Betsy, the red and white Chevy station wagon, and drive to the big Main Chapel on post. In those days, the houses that didn't put up Christmas lights were in the minority. The lights were such a festive sight as we came back from church in the black of night; and George, if he was driving, would click the headlights' brights on and off and sing out, "M-E-E-E-R-RY CHRISTMAS!" as we went through the neighborhood.

     I don't remember what my feelings were about God in those earliest years, but I do remember when I was a freshman at Incarnate Word High School. It was 1973, and atheism and agnosticism were very much "in vogue" following the turbulent '60s and embarking on the age of feminism, free sex, widespread birth control and legalized abortion. "Me, Myself, and I" was in; God was out. So I decided I was an agnostic. I was a child of the times, anxious to fit in and be cool. At IWHS we had a religion class. Our teacher was one of the new post-Vatican II sisters—street clothes, no veil, only a face devoid of makeup and a name badge to identify her as a religious. She had serious yet gentle eyes and a gentle voice, and was bit taken aback by my brash announcement that I was agnostic. But I read the assigned Scripture readings; it was a class, after all. We used the newly issued Good News for Modern Man translation, wildly popular at the time. And it was while reading the account in Acts of Saul's conversion that I let down my guard and gave in to Christ. I became, what was called in those days, a "Jesus freak."

19 January 2004 

     After the rediscovery of my faith as a teenager, I began to devour Scripture. I fell in love with the Wisdom books and Acts and all the Gospels. My bosom friend Cindy and I lent our voices and guitar skills to the Mass at school. Folk music was everywhere; organs and the old hymns were shunned in the so-called renewal of the Liturgy. I drew and wrote all over my notebooks and even my clothes—"Jesus is Lord" and the ubiquitous "One Way" with the hand pointing up. I covered my saddle shoes (part of the IWHS uniform) with crosses and fish. I smiled benignly on my fellow man and thought everyone was, in some way, "beautiful." Yes, I was most  definitely a '70s-style Jesus freak and late-blooming flower child.

     For reasons which remain unknown to me, I moved away from the Church and lost my faith during college. [Many years after I wrote this, I learned with the help of a therapist that the sudden death of my sister Alice was the true reason.] I became so intent on piano competitions and recitals; music became my religion. Or, rather, my career became my religion and remained so for 23 years.

     Did I ever, in all those "lost years," really lose my faith? Or did I simply push it away and bury it beneath my selfishness and ambition? How different would I be now, if I had never strayed from Him? Or is there even any point in wondering? People say things happen for a reason, we each have our own path—which is simply pop psychology's way of saying that God has a plan for each one of us. But did I go against his will 23 years ago? Or did he permit me to wander away from him, knowing I would eventually come back to him with my whole heart, wiser, more willing, more trusting? Did he purposely hide his face from me until I finally looked into the pit of my soul and admitted with every ounce of my being that I needed him? Is that what it took for me to receive the gift of true faith? For faith is a grace from God alone; it can't be contrived or manufactured through human effort or determination. It must be given—when our reason is ready to receive it.

     When I think of all the dark moments, all the tears and torments of those lost years, I cannot but be convinced of God's loving mercy; even though I never asked his help—at least, not consciously—he never really abandoned me; even though I offended him deeply and repeatedly, he forgave me. His memory for sins is short and his mercy is boundless.

FOUND BY SPLENDOR

　
I have known vermilion seas
ravishing the horizon,
drawing earth and day away
to another tomorrow.
I have known translucent arms
clinging to a fickle sky
as a lover's fingertips
would cling to his beloved's.
I have known blinding rapiers
gashing the encroaching clouds
with one last defiant thrust
before succumbing to dusk.

Beyond it all was splendor;
of that much I was certain.
Till I found it—if I could—
I had the sky, and with it,
the dream of what I believed
I could obtain. But once found,
how could I hope to hold it?
My soul was a rusted sieve
through which grains of barren faith
streamed ... sandy, impotent tears.
Yet in my pride, I questioned:
if, like Tennyson's hero,
I strove, sought with all my will,
refused to yield—would I find?

Ah, no, my restless warrior,
to yield is to find—and hold!
So many alluring suns
I sought to hold, till at last
I yielded and waited firm,
and the truer sun arose,
wrapping round me like a robe!

There is no more need to strive
for splendor. It has found me.

On the Gift of Music and the Mystery of Religious Vocation

     Before I move on with my religious vocation story, I would like to clarify something. I wrote in my last post that, before my reversion to the faith, I didn't think of my musical talent as a gift from God, but only as a vehicle for my vain ambition. That much is true. But I also had, and still have, a genuine love for music itself which is completely separate from my ambition. From childhood, music has been as much a part of me as my blood. There is nothing on this earth that moves me more, and if I didn't have it in my life in some capacity, a large part of my heart would die. Which is why I was ultimately able to give up my career. The career was never the true gift. Not even is my talent the true gift. The true gift was and is, quite simply, the music itself. Whether or not I am a practicing musician, professional or un- , matters not at all. What matters is that I love music. And as long as I love it, I am not wasting the gift God gave me.
     We've all heard the phrase "true vocation." I've held so many jobs, but have yet to find my true vocation  is commonly heard, perhaps not in those exact words. But what precisely is meant by "true vocation"? For Christians, indeed for all humankind, there is only one true vocation: holiness, or union with God, which is the same thing. But we all know that the path to our true vocation is different for each and every one of us, and along that path, we may be called to one or more, shall we say, "sub-vocations." These sub-vocations, if we follow and fulfill them according to God's will, should lead us to holiness. All of us are called to more than one sub-vocation; for instance, each and every human being is called to be a son or daughter; then you yourself may be called to be a parent—that's two sub-vocations so far. Furthermore, you may teach for a living, or, in my case, become an opera coach. That's three. Each of these is a paving stone in our path to holiness.
     What is of the utmost importance, what makes these paving stones strong, is how we carry out these sub-vocations. When we are given them by God, we use our free will (which he also gave us) either to accept or reject them. If we accept them, God will give us sufficient grace to live them. If we reject them, we will not be truly at peace. Accepting his will and responding to his grace will give us peace and keep us on our path to holiness.
     But sometimes God throws us a curve! How many stories have we heard of someone enjoying success, comfort, and contentment, only to get an out-of-the-blue notion to uproot everything he's laid down for himself and his family, if he has one, and start all over with something completely different? Some tell him, "You're crazy!" while others applaud his courage. How does he know he's doing the right thing?
     How could I know I was doing the right thing when I gave up my cozy career in opera for the cloister? How can anyone know if what they think is a religious calling is indeed that? The call to religious life is the most mysterious sub-vocation of all. For some, it is a seed that is planted from their first moments of consciousness. For others, like myself, it's a curve ball. And mine was a hanging curve ball, to boot. If it is of the curve ball variety, another question arises: How do I know that this is from God, and not born of my own will and imagination? That question tormented me for many months until I finally asked it out loud to my spiritual director. After a moment's thought and, I suspect, a short prayer, he gave me this invaluable answer: If you try again and again to push it away, but it keeps coming back stronger than ever, it's most probably not your own will, but God's. Ask him.
     Taking this with me into further prayer and meditation, I asked God straight out from my heart: Let me know Your will. And God, seeing I was sincere in asking, gave me his answer with undeniable clarity. Exactly how he gave it, I cannot tell. That's between him and me. All I can tell you is that it left me with peace of mind and a joyful heart.
     And so, I took the next step. . . .